Heiress Without a Cause (8 page)

Westbrook turned his gaze back to her. “So, Madame Guerrier, I must ask why you are throwing yourself away on Rothwell. Even leaving aside the rumors about his brothers, the whole ton knows that he has turned his back on London life. If you choose him, you will find yourself out on the streets within the month.”

“Did you offer Lady Greville the same security?” Madeleine asked. She had never played the role of a hardened mistress — but in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Caro got what she wanted out of our arrangement, which is more than I can say for what she got from Rothwell.”

She wasn’t ready to forgive Ferguson for taking command, but she couldn’t express interest in Westbrook just to get revenge. And since Ferguson had guessed her true identity, she could not risk offending him. So she murmured, “I am flattered by your offer, my lord, but my understanding with his grace is of longer duration.” Ferguson squeezed her, and despite the distracting nuzzling at her neck, she was glad that he was at her back.

Westbrook was shocked for a single second, but he smoothed his face and put his hat back on his head. “You wound me, Madame Guerrier. But I am quite particular in my tastes. No doubt Rothwell will end this soon — or you will end it yourself, if he proves dangerous. If you find yourself wanting a new companion, I am at your service.” He kissed her hand, gave a curt nod to Ferguson, and took his leave.

Madeleine leaned back into Ferguson’s chest, not knowing how tense she had been until Westbrook left the room. Talking to Westbrook in the ton could have caused a scandal for an unwed almost-spinster. Accepting his kiss while sitting in Ferguson’s lap made her feel like she was already ruined.

She listened to him walk away, and her rage rushed back with every step. As soon as she heard the stage door close in the distance, Madeleine sprang to her feet. “Are you mad?” she shrieked. “What in the world are you doing?”

Ferguson put a finger on her lips. But after his autocratic possession of her body in front of Westbrook, she was in no mood for his control.

She opened her mouth and bit him.

“Bloody hell,” he swore, jerking his hand back. “What was that for?”

“Don’t shush me like a child! I deserve an answer for what just happened.”

“And you shall have all the answers you want as soon as we’re in my coach,” he said, opening the door to check their surroundings. “But unless you want the whole theatre to hear our discussion — and there will be a discussion — I suggest you accept my shushing and come with me.”

She wanted to bite him again, but she knew he was right. He took her arm and ushered her out of the dressing room, pulling her toward the back door. “There may be more outside. Act like you haven’t a care in the world.”

She glared at him. “I was not born yesterday, Ferguson. If anyone gives us away, it will not be me.”

He grinned. “You may be the most vexing mistress I’ve ever had.”

Madeleine sucked in a breath as her fury renewed itself, but they were out of the theatre and into the alley. Several men, all vague acquaintances from the ton, loitered as the glowering doorman watched them. Someone had given him a cudgel, and no one else appeared eager to storm the theatre.

“Madame Guerrier!” they cried with one voice. In the darkened alleyway, she should have been afraid — but there remained that fascinating feeling that
she
was in control, not them. She suddenly understood the Caesars of the world, perhaps better than any woman of her station could.

“You are all too late, gentlemen,” Ferguson said.

Their acclaim turned to disappointment. “Rothwell?” one man said. “I see you’ve lost no time in finding a new mistress.”

He shrugged. “I must keep up appearances.”

“Damned expensive bauble,” another observed. “You could have just bought a new horse and been done with it.”

Madeleine couldn’t keep herself quiet. They discussed her like she was a commodity, and seeing how men spoke about women when there were no ladies present annoyed her. “I am worth more than a horse, I assure you,” Madeleine said, slipping back into her French accent for the crowd.

“And much more fun to ride,” Ferguson drawled, pulling her closer to him.

The men roared. Madeleine blushed, wishing she could have controlled her surprise, but Ferguson’s ribald comment caught her unawares. Was this what it was to be a courtesan — an object for entertainment?

The crowd was still laughing, some of them shouting suggestions for Ferguson’s future happiness with his new mistress. She may have liked their adoration from the safety of the stage, but in the alley, their desires felt dangerous. She was glad she couldn’t remember any of their names. It would be bad enough seeing them in the ton, let alone knowing which wives or fiancées they were ignoring in favor of her.

“When he tires of you, Madame Guerrier, I wouldn’t mind taking you for a ride myself!” yelled one of the men, sounding drunker than the rest.

Three offers of carte blanche in one night — it must be a record for a spinster of her status. She waved a hand. “Rothwell will not cast me off yet, will you,
cher
?”

He started to speak, but she brushed her fingers over his lips. “Don’t tell me here,” she said with a wink. “You can tell me in the carriage.”

Ferguson scowled at her, displeased by her mimicry, and pulled her fingers away from his mouth to thread them through his. He tugged her away from the crowd, guided her around the corner to his waiting coach, and lifted her in before settling across from her. The coach lurched forward without him giving a direction. Where in all of London could he take her while she looked like this?

And what would he do with her when they reached their destination?

But before she could ask, he exploded.

“What in the devil were you doing?” he yelled.

“What in the devil was
I
doing?” she asked, her temper flaring to match his. “I was merely making the best of the situation
you
forced me into. You, on the other hand, have gone mad! And now I’m trapped in a carriage with you, bound for an unknown destination, and you ask what I was doing?”

He leaned forward until his face was mere inches from hers. In the flickering lamplight of the coach, he looked grim but determined. “If I had not intervened tonight, you could be in a coach with Westbrook right now — and you would like that much less, I assure you.”

“I could have dealt with Westbrook,” Madeleine said.

“Bollocks,” Ferguson retorted, leaning back into the red velvet seat. “He would have had you out of those breeches before you launched a protest.”

His comment reminded her of her costume — and his lingering caresses in her dressing room. She crossed her legs uncomfortably. “You paint such a picture of my honor. Do you think that because I am an actress, and not the paragon of virtue chaperoning your sisters, I must be ripe for the taking?”

It was Ferguson’s turn to shift. “Not at all. I just know how rakes like Westbrook act when presented with a challenge.”

“Because you act the same?” she asked sweetly.

She had backed him into a corner. He scowled in response. “This isn’t about me. This is about you, and the ruin from which I am trying to save you. Which, let me remind you, I must save you from — you are associated with my sisters, and I cannot let you be ruined.”

“And your brilliant plot to save me from ruin is to make me your mistress?”

“It is the only way. I saw the men in the theatre. If your actress does not have a protector, half the men there are willing to do the honors.”

“So in the time you spent sending away Josephine, bribing the doorman, and arranging whatever else it took to make this plan, you couldn’t have just hired a dozen men from the nearest pub to guard the door?”

His mouth opened and shut several times, as though he thought better of every defense he might have offered. Finally, he recovered his resolve. “This is still the better plan,” he said. “Even when I am not at the theatre, you needn’t worry about another man backstage if they know you belong to me. But it is my fault you are so close to being discovered by the ton — and I intend to guard you until the last performance.”

“Why should I not just ask Alex to guard me?”

“Given how well you’ve kept this secret so far, I suspect he does not know. Do you really want to tell him?” Ferguson asked.

She paused, then gave the tiniest shake of her head.

Ferguson smiled, looking just as predatory as Westbrook. She wondered if the two of them were really so different — if Ferguson had lived in London for the past decade, would he be as hardened as the earl?

He leaned in again. “As far as I am concerned, your reputation is my responsibility now. The sooner you accept that, the easier a time we will have of it.”

Madeleine arched a brow. “That is quite a bold statement.”

“You either accept my protection, or I will take you to the Stauntons right now and demand they send you away.”

Her eyes widened. “You would really tell Alex? He will kill you when he finds out your role in this.”

Ferguson shrugged. “If I died, at least I would be rid of this bloody title. And anyway, I think you would rather accept my help. The Stauntons would smother you in their attempts to protect your reputation, but I’m not ready to give up on you just yet.”

His voice dropped into a caress on that last line, and she felt a brief, peculiar flutter in her chest that had nothing to do with the bindings around her breasts. The man was insane, and if they were caught it would be the scandal of the decade — but if she had been found out as an actress, it would have been a scandal anyway. The consequences would be the same in any case.

But with Ferguson on her side, she felt a flash of hope that she might emerge unscathed from her month at the theatre, despite the overwhelming odds. It was strange to have a partner in this. Amelia and Prudence were the closest things she had to partners, but even they had voiced reservations about her scheme. Ferguson, however, seemed convinced they could pull through — and his belief gave her hope.

She relaxed slightly into the seat. “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“My sister’s house, if she’ll have us,” he said. “It was the only place I could think to take you. I sent Josephine back to Salford House so that no one would recognize her, and her husband will retrieve you when the servants are all asleep and it is safe for you to sneak back in.”

Somehow she had forgotten about servants, even though they were often quicker to know of the latest gossip than their masters were. “And your coachman?”

“A bit belated to ask — but you can trust him as well. He came with me from the Ferguson clan, and he does not gossip with the English servants.”

Madeleine left her questions at that. The more important question of what it meant to masquerade as his mistress — and how far that masquerade would go — she left unvoiced. It was too mortifying. Better to brazen it out when he broached the subject. Until then, she would pretend she was on the way to a late supper party, or a musicale, or even a boring evening at Court — anywhere but in a private coach with Ferguson, destined for the home of one of the most notorious hostesses in London.

The carriage finally came to a halt. With the shades drawn, she had not known where they were, and she wasn’t entirely sure whether to be relieved or worried that they had arrived at their destination. She felt the coach sway as the driver leapt down from the box. The door swung outward and the man pulled down the steps.

Ferguson exited first, then turned and offered her his hand. In her breeches, sliding out of the coach was trivial — a welcome change from the challenges of exiting a coach in full ball regalia without snagging oneself on the doorframe or ruining one’s slippers in the mud.

She looked up at the massive townhouse in front of her. It dominated its section of Portman Square, a four-story behemoth nearly twice as large as its nearest neighbor. The surrounding houses were owned by other illustrious members of the ton, including a duke, an earl, and several baronets — all of whom were no doubt appalled by the comings and goings at the Folkestone residence.

A footman opened the door, retreating unseen behind it. The butler was framed by the opening, his unexpectedly young, handsome face illuminated by the sconces on either side of the door. Madeleine eyed the butler and felt another wave of trepidation mixed with curiosity. One of the rumors about the marchioness was that she trawled the theatres looking for the most handsome men and women to serve her, for reasons that no one knew but herself. Madeleine had never believed the rumors, but the butler’s looks made her wonder.

Ferguson leaned down to murmur in her ear. “I know Ellie isn’t quite the thing in your circles, but she always had a kind heart. I think you will suit each other quite well if you are willing to chance it.”

“I am hardly in a position to cut anyone, let alone someone who may be willing to help me.”

He placed his hand on the small of her back and they walked up the steps to the door. The butler bowed to them. “The marchioness is waiting for you in her private salon, your grace.”

He led them up the staircase to the hall above. The Folkestone house rivaled some of the grandest buildings in London, redolent with the scent of perfume, dozens of beeswax candles, and lavish bouquets of hothouse flowers. Madeleine imagined an Eastern harem might smell similarly — this was a house dominated by its mistress.

The butler opened an oak door near the end of the hall. “His grace the duke of Rothwell and Madame Guerrier,” he said, knowing who Madeleine was supposed to be even though her name had not been mentioned.

A woman lounged on a divan in the center of the room, the book in her hand and the serious expression on her face at odds with her daring gown and opulent surroundings. With her dark red hair and striking blue eyes, she clearly shared a mother with Ferguson. She rose from her seat as they were announced and her gorgeous gold gown shimmered around her as she walked toward them. There was such an allure about the way the silk flowed around her legs that Madeleine felt very plain and insignificant in her men’s garb.